Re-entry

I wake to a barely white Sunday. The sun, it seems, rises later here. My time is now very short. And it is time. Time to return... to an elder daughter who, last night, began weeping over my absence... to a spouse who has been ill... to my littlest, who just wants to touch me over and over again and look in my eyes.

It is time.

Even though I will still meet Denise Frame Harlan on the plane (she will later remember that she already knew of me from Byron Borger), and sit directly behind poet Scott Cairns (I wonder, did I kick the back of his seat unawares?).

It is time.

Yes, I will chat with Kent Curry all the way through security and beyond. I will close my eyes on the plane and remember (fondly), my long talk with artist Steve Prince. I will make a list of all the things I need to do when I get home (reminding myself who I am... laundry, kiss the kids, read aloud, cook, get gift for spouse to celebrate new job). Yes and yes and yes. But right now...

It is time...


"Return"

Sift sort toss fold tissues
paper, scarves (silk), socks
black assortments (under type),
wool slacks, wrinkled after hours
of walk talk flash laugh.
Poke into sleeveless tee, shiver into
soft blouse with dusty-rose camellias
and moss-green leaves sprawling. Slide
into black cotton stretch pants, wrong length
and loose at the knees, dawning white with wear
and clearly coming undone at the hems. Breathe
in, slow; breathe out, slow. Blink... yawn... and roll away.


LL photo by L.L. Barkat.

RELATED POSTS:

LL's Penultimate Potpourri Sans Poetry

LL's Looking for Lil

LL's Body of Water

LL's Solo at the Red Sun

LL's Leaving

A Slow Emergence

It was dark when I woke. 4:30 in the morning. All was quiet except for the frogs, who never seemed to set love's call aside. (Their wooing task was my constant companion at the conference, often waking me throughout my five consecutive nights.) I dressed slowly, did all the business of what should have been morning and finally stepped outside into the cool mist.

My thoughts were secret goodbyes to many of my sleeping friends, as I passed their various cabins. I made my way past the red-berried holly tree one last time, to the waiting airport shuttle. We rode through the edge of night, chatting. The driver gave me sage advice on being a real person, even as upcoming changes will put me more clearly into the public eye.

On the plane, I meant to nap, but instead met an amazing artist who was on his way to Chicago for the opening of a J-Lo perfume promotion at Macy's. His sculpture was to be the centerpiece at the premiere, and part of me wished I could stay on in Chicago just to see his vision unveiled.

I did stay on in Chicago, as it went, but not for shopping and art appreciation. Fog had put all planes in a "floating" pattern. My flight was significantly delayed. I sat on the floor and wrote and daydreamed, trying to begin processing all that had happened in the week behind me.

It was a slow trip home, and this morning I realize it defines what is ahead of me. I have much to tell about woods and ocean, faces and voices, spiritual awakenings. But it will be a slow emergence. As all real growth and insight must be.

So come, sit beside me, and over the days we shall see.


Chicago O'Hare photo, by L.L. Barkat.

MOUNT HERMON STUFF:

L.L. reads from the real SC book, out in the redwood forest at Mount Hermon. Find the video on Zimbio: Stone Crossings

Please welcome a Mount Hermon blogosphere newcomer with your visit: The Oho Report, by Otto Haugland.

Kirsten's Mount Hermon photos

Mark's thoughts about finding God on a closed trail

Becky's Mount Hermon Report